His to Defend - Em Petrova Page 0,10
Pierre’s olive complexion. She bit off a scream and ran out of the bathroom. She made it as far as the kitchen when the man stepped through the back door again.
Hysterical cries built in her throat. She didn’t know the man standing in front of her, but she recognized his body well enough. She’d just spent most of an hour clinging to it on the back of a motorbike.
She waved a hand at him. “Stay away from me!”
“Lillian, I won’t hurt you. Let’s talk.”
He didn’t speak in Pierre’s voice now, and it hit her that he’d been in disguise. His jawline, the shape of his face, spoke of roots far beyond Pierre’s French heritage.
“Who are you? What do you want with me?” Terror racked her, but she held her ground, glaring at him with her best don’t-fuck-with-me stare.
“Lillian, please. Just listen to me. I’m not Pierre.”
“I guessed!” she spat in English.
Without a blink, he switched languages. “Pierre is not the target right now—you are. That man shot at you for a reason.”
Her jaw dropped. She gaped at him for several heartbeats.
“They wanted Pierre to die in that crash, but he didn’t die. Or I didn’t, rather,” he said.
“What the fuck!”
“I’ve heard that French girls use bad language, though I’ve never experienced it for myself.”
“I’m half American, and you can go fuck off! I’m getting away from you.”
She made it all of one step before the wall of man stopped her dead in her tracks. “Lillian, I know this is difficult to wrap your head around, but you’re in danger, and I’m here to protect you from those men.”
Another shock. “I’m in…danger?”
“Didn’t you realize it when that man shot at you?”
“It wasn’t aimed at me.”
He leveled his stare at her. The eyes were still Pierre’s dark hue with amber flecks, and she couldn’t reconcile the change in this man’s face with what she saw in his eyes.
“Who are you?” she demanded.
“My name’s Lars. The less you know of me the better. We’ll just keep it on a first-name basis, shall we?”
She tangled her fingers in her long hair and tugged at the strands, hoping more blood flow might reach her brain and help her comprehend what was going on.
“Listen, we’re only making a stop here. I’m waiting for…” He tipped his head, and she heard it too—the crunch of tires on cobblestones as a car traversed the road.
Backing up against the wall, she wrapped her arms around herself and scouted the kitchen for a butcher knife to use as a weapon. Dammit, she’d left her knife in her suitcase back in her hotel room. Her skills ended on a kitchen cutting board, but if need be, she could thrust a sharp point into a man’s stomach. Or neck. Maybe the neck would be a better target.
Target. The word flooded her mind again. I’m a target.
The man—Lars—moved to the back door and spoke to someone she couldn’t see. “Thank you. Let him know she’s safe, but they cannot see each other. Not until the situation is neutralized.”
She slid down the wall. Her backside hit the warm hardwood, and Lars turned to find her that way.
His gaze softened. “You’re bleeding. Come with me.” He reached down to her, and she let him pull her to her feet.
At the racetrack and during their escape, she hadn’t realized that her blouse sleeve was ripped and the cut bled through the fabric. Now that some of her adrenaline faded, she felt the sting.
Lars led her to the bathroom. She must have made some noise at the sight of the jelly-like pieces of flesh because he swept them away into a garbage can. “Sit down,” he told her.
She sank to the toilet seat and watched him as he located first-aid supplies as if he knew exactly where everything was kept.
“Can you roll up your sleeve?” His dark eyes still confused her. How did they look so much like Pierre’s?
She fumbled her sleeve over her forearm. The cut drew a jagged line down the front of her elbow and forearm.
“You must have gotten it when we landed on the ground.”
She said nothing. He cleaned her cut with antiseptic wash and then retrieved a ball of cotton and dabbed more antiseptic on her cheek.
“Someone’s trying to kill me?” she whispered.
His gaze sank into her. “Honey, a bullet was coming right at your head. If I hadn’t hit you at that moment, you wouldn’t be my ward right now.”
“What does that mean? Ward?”
“It means I’m your bodyguard until I deem